Blueberry Hill: a Sister's Story(29)

“Don’t talk like that,” I say, but by then she’s caught by a coughing spell and waves me off.

Although we leave the conversation there, the thought remains in my head.



At three o’clock the rest of the family starts arriving. Donna spends most of the day in the recliner with Jason by her side and Anthony in her arms. She moves her hand back and forth in a slow gentle motion, first talking to Anthony then stroking the dog. She has enough love to satisfy both.

After the dinner dishes have been cleared away, I notice Donna no longer sits in the recliner. She has been gone for some time and I am concerned, so I go in search of her. It is easy to track her; I simply follow the plastic tubing that comes from the large oxygen tank. The trail leads to the bathroom, but the plastic clip that should be in my sister’s nose is outside the door.

I rap loudly on the door. “Donna, are you in there?”

“Yeah.” The word is broken by a hacking cough before it is completed and sounds more like, “Yearrkkk, arrkkk.”

“Are you okay?” I rattle the knob, but the door is locked. “Let me in.”

“No, I’m on the john.” She gives another hard cough then says, “Go away. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“You need help?”

This time her answer sounds impatient. “No. Go away.”

I turn to walk away, but at the end of the hall I stop. I want to make certain she is all right. When the door finally clicks open, I slip around the corner so Donna won’t know I have been watching and waiting. She walks slowly and holds to the furniture as she moves. The oxygen clip is back in her nose.

The line between being helpful and suffocating someone with unwanted care is a fine one and easy to cross when it’s a person you love. I wait and give Donna time to make her way across the room. When she settles into the recliner I go to her and squat beside the chair. My intent is to ask if she needs anything, but before I get the chance I get a whiff of it.

It’s the unmistakable odor of cigarette smoke.

Although such a thought seems incredulous, I lean close and whisper, “Have you been smoking?”

She turns her head and looks square into my face, dismissing the question with an indignant glare and a shake of her head. It is not convincing.

I leave her and return to the hall bathroom. The window is open and cold air is rushing in, but the odor of tobacco still lingers. Once you’ve been a smoker, you know the smell. Regardless of how long ago you gave it up, that odor is forever recognizable. It’s like a song that brings the memory of a long-ago love.

There is no longer a question; I know Donna was smoking in here. Everyone else had been warned not to smoke inside the house.

“Donna is on oxygen,” I explained. “A cigarette spark can cause an explosion.”

That’s why the oxygen clip was left in the hall.

Truth is an unrelenting thing. When it comes and slaps you in the face, you have no choice but to see it for what it is. Why? I ask myself. Why?

Inside I feel the rage of a thousand bulls. I want to scream and smack my sister’s face until I shake some sense into her. But I do nothing, because it is Christmas Eve and she is happy with her children and new grandson. During the past two years there have been few times of such happiness, so I hold back my anger and say nothing. For now.

I pass the remainder of the evening doing as I have always done: handing out presents, passing around desserts, wishing those who depart a safe journey and finding those who stay clean sheets and a comfortable place to sleep. When the house is quiet and Dick and I are alone in our room, I tell him what I have discovered. He listens with his eyes riveted to my face as I speak.

“I don’t know what to do,” I say.

“What can you do?” he answers. “I know you love your sister, but she’s the one who’s in charge of her life. You can’t make these decisions for her.”

Ignoring this logic, I say, “This could kill her.”

“Maybe, but it’s still her choice.” As he folds his sweater and slips it into the drawer, he shakes his head sadly.

Far into the night I lie awake thinking about what I now know and wondering what to do. As the faint light of Christmas morning breaks across the sky, I vow not to ruin Donna’s day. After the holiday is over, I will visit her alone and we can talk about this.

I close my eyes and pray that I’m wrong. Maybe the smell was only of drinks and sweat and printed gift-wrap. Perhaps my mind has focused too hard on a problem where none exists.

“Please, God,” I pray, “let it be that I am wrong.”





The Truth




January is a mean month. It’s cold, blustery, and eventless. Nothing good can come of January. Today it is too cold to snow, but dark gray clouds hang low across the horizon erasing any definition between the earth and sky. This is January, a colorless sky, remnants of leftover snow and leafless trees.

I am on my way to Baltimore. Alone. Donna is not expecting me, and when she hears what I have to say she most likely will wish I hadn’t come.

After what seems to be a longer-than-ever drive, I pull into the parking lot in front of her apartment complex. I climb from the car, walk to the entrance, and ring the doorbell. She is slow in answering, so I stand and shuffle my feet to keep warm. After a long while the curtain parts, and she peeks out to see who is at the door. As the buzzer sounds, I hear her throaty voice say, “Sorry, I was in the bathroom.”